


Close Shave

by teacuphuman



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), The Dark Knight Rises
Genre: Alternate Universe, Barbershop fic, M/M, clandestine meetings, finding what you didn't know you were looking for, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-25 03:15:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10755597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/pseuds/teacuphuman
Summary: Barsad is closing up when he notices the man through the gap in the blinds. He’s lurking across the street, face hidden in the shadow cast by the building in front of him. Barsad has already swept the floor and oiled his blades, and if he lets the man in he’ll have to do it all over again. He sighs just as the man looks up, his eyes catching the light of a street lamp and zeroing in on Barsad. A shiver goes through him and before he knows what he’s doing he’s crossing the small shop and unlocking the door. He turns around and waits. It’s been three months since the man’s last visit and Barsad can’t help the thrill he feels now that he’s come back.





	Close Shave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crewdlydrawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crewdlydrawn/gifts).



> This fic was written for the lovely and exceptionally patient crewdlydrawn. Thank you so much for your support, darling!

Barsad is closing up when he notices the man through the gap in the blinds. He’s lurking across the street, face hidden in the shadow cast by the building in front of him. Barsad has already swept the floor and oiled his blades, and if he lets the man in he’ll have to do it all over again. He sighs just as the man looks up, his eyes catching the light of a street lamp and zeroing in on Barsad. A shiver goes through him and before he knows what he’s doing he’s crossing the small shop and unlocking the door. He turns around and waits. It’s been three months since the man’s last visit and Barsad can’t help the thrill he feels now that he’s come back. 

 

He had first appeared outside Barsad’s small barbershop a year ago, emerging from the shadows in the moment between Barsad turning the open sign to closed and him locking the door. He was wild looking and large, his beard a frazzled mess, his clothes wrinkled and patched. It was his eyes that drew Barsad in the beginning. Serious and wary, they watched every move Barsad made, leading him to believe the man’s true purpose was a robbery. Barsad had been feeling a little tempered and obsolete lately, so he figured he would at least let the man try.  

 

But the man didn’t pull a weapon or try to intimidate Barsad, he simply lowered the hood of his coat and looked pointedly at Barsad’s only chair. He never said a word when Barsad nodded and relocked the door; just stood there, watching, his sea-green eyes never wavering, not even when Barsad washed and trimmed his hair. Even with hot, wet towels draped over the man’s head and face, Barsad could feel his gaze.

 

The door opens with a soft snick, the bolt loud in the silence of the shop when the man turns the lock. Barsad hears him removing his coat and he closes his eyes, unsure when their ritual began to feel intimate. He hasn’t even touched the man yet, and already his heart is speeding up, his nerves buzzing beneath his skin. He goes to the wash station, giving the man a small, flat smile. It’s been a long time between visits, and the man’s boots have more scuffs, his coat a mended tear that hadn’t been there last time, but his hair is clean and he still smells of ozone and fresh dirt. Barsad runs his fingers through thick brown hair, mourning the loss before he’s even made the first cut. 

 

The man wants it shaved off, this he knows by now, and there’s no use arguing, that he learned early on. It’s a curious thing to him, how this severe man with his deliberate movements and cautious eyes can speak so loudly without ever saying a word. Most men who sit in his chair never shut up, taking his own silence as interest as they tell him the stories of their lives, laying out weaknesses and secrets in turn, never fully understanding the weight it places on the one they’re telling. Barsad could do dangerous things with information like that. Once upon a time he did. 

 

He washes the man’s hair, going through a phonebook’s worth of names in his head, trying to find something that fits the imposing man who has folded himself into the wash chair and is watching Barsad with keen eyes. He’d made it to M last time the man was in but he’s yet to hit on anything that sounds right. He could ask, of course, but that feels like cheating. Besides, he doubts the man would tell him anyway.

 

He rubs a towel through the man’s hair and pulls out his clippers. The hair falls in clumps on the floor, decorating Barsad’s shoes as he works his way over the man’s hair and face, leaving a quarter of an inch of bristle for the straight blade. Towels from the gas-powered warmer go on next, covering most of the man’s face and scalp. Barsad lightly trails his fingers over the man’s weathered skin as he wraps him, making sure to leave plenty of space around the eyes so the man can see him. Barsad takes out the broom and sweeps up the hair on the floor, feeling the man’s eyes on him as he moves about the room. It had taken a few visits, but Barsad was now able to turn his back on the man without feeling vulnerable. Logically, he knows the man could attack at any minute, but he trusts him not to now. It’s strange, to trust a man you’ve never spoken to, but Barsad has encountered far stranger things in his life and isn’t about to question his instincts.

 

He strops his razor, running the blade along the leather until the edge is even, then he prepares the shaving cream, using a mix with lanolin from wool fat, its clean scent filling the room as soon as he opens the container. He removes the towels, from the man’s head, dropping them into the sink and pausing. Normally, he uses a badger brush to distribute the cream, the bristles of the brush lifting the hair to ensure a closer shave, but there’s something about tonight that feels different. The man’s eyelids have lowered and though he’s clearly still paying attention to Barsad, his body hasn’t tensed at the pause in his movements.  

 

Barsad scoops out the cream with his fingers, working the thick paste between them to soften and warm it, then he spreads it over the man’s head. The hair prickles Barsad’s skin, but it’s worth it when Barsad rubs behind the man’s ear, near the base of his skull, and is rewarded with a low growl. It’s not a warning, he’s sure, because the man pushes into it, his lashes fluttering when Barsad presses harder. His breath matches the steady rise and fall of the man’s, but his heart kicks up a notch. He’s reluctant to stop touching, but this part of his task in done and the man is ready for the blade. He washes his hands and dips the razor into a bowl of hot water, heating it before he tilts the man’s head back further and does the first swipe. 

 

Barsad works on autopilot, moving the man’s head this way and that, careful not to knick the skin. One of the nice things about using the straight razor is how the weight of it is all that’s needed to get the job done. He guides the blade, but it’s the true labourer, easily clearing cream and hair from the man’s head until it’s gleaming and smooth. He wipes off the remnants of cream with another hot towel and runs an alum stick over the man’s scalp, sealing any miniscule nicks Barsad can’t see. He applies a red cedar balm after that, the man grumbling lightly again, and Barsad almost sighs at the heat that starts to pool in his groin. He does the same thing fifteen to twenty times a day, but it’s never felt like this before. He’s never wanted to crawl into someone’s lap and just  _ touch _ . The man’s body is large and strong, and Barsad wants to explore it. Wants to push, and pull, and see how much the man can take and then he wants it done back to him in turn. 

 

It’s a surprise to him, how much he wants. His wife has been gone for over a decade, and though Barsad has had others in his bed, none of them have made him crave attention the way this man has. He wants to press against the man’s arm where it’s resting on the chair, rub himself along all of that firm, tanned skin, until it breaks him. 

 

The man makes a questioning noise and Barsad realizes he’s paused with his hands on the back of the man’s neck. His breath has grown heavy and he has to adjust himself before he can continue. He takes a deep, quiet breath and unwraps the lower portion of the man’s face, those seafoam eyes watching him closely. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think it’s humour he sees in them as they rake over his body. There is something there, though; of that he’s sure. An interest in Barsad’s reaction, if nothing else, and he choses to let it embolden him instead of shame him.

 

He spreads the cream with his fingers again, scrubbing the tips of his fingers over the wiry hair. The man’s lips are soft and lush where they’re not bisected by scars, and Barsad wants to feel them. Longs to follow the gnarled skin across the man’s face and over his body, mapping all the wounds he’s survived and sharing his own. Not a competition, but a kinship in knowing the horrors that humankind can perpetrate.

 

The blade clinks against the basin, but Barsad’s hands don’t shake when he leans it into the man’s cheek, pulling the skin taut and dragging the razor along the grain, the dull rasping sound a soothing melody to his electrified nerves. He finally gets to touch the man’s lips when he shaves his upper lip, pressing his thumb into the man’s pronounced philtrum and cutting away the hair in short strokes. He leaves his thumb there a few seconds longer than is necessary, staring at where his callused digit indents the rosy hue of the lip, turning it white under the pressure. His eyes flick up to the man’s and there’s hunger there, something dark and heated that he’s never seen before. It makes him shudder, goosebumps rising on his arms and scalp, the hair on the back of his neck standing up.

 

Barsad pulls away and clears his throat, tilting the man’s head up to lengthen his neck. He’s careful as he draws the blade over vulnerable skin. The man’s hands grip the arms of the chair, and this Barsad understands all too well. He was sixteen the first time someone tried to kill him. Young, but not naive, simply distracted by his own work, which allowed the woman to step up behind him, slipping the thin wire around his neck. He’d gotten his fingers between the garrote and his throat, but not before she’d started to pull. It was a miracle he had any feeling in the fingers on his right hand and he made sure his scarf was always in place to hide the scar the wire had left behind. 

 

He wishes he had the ability to wear his wounds like the man does; on display as a warning and a message. That many have tried, but none have succeeded in bringing him down. No, Barsad’s strength has always lain in blending in. No one asks questions of a man they cannot see and this has served him well. This man, though, draws notice wherever he goes, which is no doubt why he waits until Barsad is closed to come in. It would be so easy to attack him like this, to line up a lethal shot, or slit his long, thick throat as he sits exposed. But for some reason he trusts Barsad not to betray him. Even the first time he’d appeared, he didn’t threaten or warn Barsad before he let him put the blade to his flesh, simply watched closely and let Barsad do as he wished. It’s not something Barsad understands because he knows he could never put himself in the same position, but it’s an honour. To have the man’s considerable bulk and power under his fingertips, at the mercy of his blade, and not be treated as an enemy. Free to touch and manipulate as needed, free to draw the man’s true visage out of the mess of hair that obscures him. Unearthing the physical markers of the life he’s lived, the hardships he’s overcome, and to display them in harsh reality. It sends a shiver through Barsad, his cock lengthening at the raw intimacy of his actions.

 

He cleans and lathers the man’s face again, pulling the razor across the grain on each pass, catching the spots he missed on the first shave. The man’s scars disrupt the hair growth, and Barsad knows he’ll need three complete shaves to ensure that it’s smooth. He falls back into habit, concentrating not on the stokes of the razor, the swish of the blade in the water as he cleans it, but on the living, breathing life under his hands. The heat of the man’s body and the perfect stillness of him as he submits to Barsad’s ministrations. He wonders darkly if the man would hold as still if it was Barsad’s cock that was dragging against his skin. Would the man open his beautiful, broken mouth and take Barsad in, or would he use his strength to take the power for himself?

 

The third time he applies the cream, Barsad cannot hide the panting breaths rushing in and out of his mouth, his heart beating a quick tattoo when the man’s hand brushes against his stomach, quick and light, and anything but accidental. He doubts anything the man does isn’t by design and it sends a shock of lust through him. His blade is steady and quick, moving against the grain until he’s cleared the cream and the man’s face is as smooth as his head, pink and wet like the mouth Barsad wants so badly to explore. 

 

He uses the alum block again and then a cool towel to seal the pores, allowing the skin to air dry. He gathers the aftershave balm in his hands, spreading the cool cream around his palms, and beside him the man’s legs fall open. Barsad’s gaze snaps to the wide thighs, spread enough that Barsad could slip right between them. The man reaches out slowly, dragging the second knuckle of his index finger over the bulge in Barsad’s pants. His eyes hold a hint of questioning in them, the whisper of a dare, and Barsad has never been one to shy away from a challenge. He steps around the chair and onto the footrest between the man’s feet, gracefully sliding his knee between the man and the side of the chair. There isn’t much room for him, but the man closes his legs and slouches a little to make space, letting out a small sigh once Barsad is straddling his lap.

 

Barsad smooths the balm over the man’s face, taking time to massage it into his skin and letting his fingers roam. There are over a dozen scars on the man’s face and Barsad touches them all, smoothing his rough fingers over their silvery edges. One day he’ll enjoy spreading the man out and tracing them all with his tongue, soothing the aches they’ve left behind and worshiping the fortitude they’ve left in their wake.

 

The man grips the back of Barsad’s thighs, pulling him closer and groaning when Barsad’s cock rubs against his own through the fabric of their pants. His hand moves tentatively up Barsad’s back to his neck, urging him down. Barsad takes the invitation and surges into the kiss, eager to finally, finally taste him. The man kisses back hesitantly, growing more confident when Barsad’s tongue slips into his mouth and slides wetly against his own. Barsad whimpers into the kiss, quickly becoming addicted to the way the man feels under him. Coiled energy and powerful force held carefully in check because he thinks Barsad fragile. But Barsad is anything but that and when the man’s fingers tighten on the back of his neck, Barsad grinds down, gasping at the friction.

 

He keeps his own touches gentle, mindful of pressing too hard on the man’s scars. His own are tender and bring forth a dull, unnerving pain when depressed, and so he slicks his tongue across the man’s lips, an apology for any pain he’s caused with his eagerness. The man brings his thick fingers to Barsad’s groin, tracing the outline of his cock and rubbing over the wet spot at the tip.  Barsad keens, pushing into it, his own hand reaching for the man’s pants. 

 

He hums with pleasure when Barsad pulls him out, his considerable member hot and smooth in Barsad’s hands. His mouth starts to water, relishing the ache his jaw would suffer while fitting it in his mouth. The man is uncommonly large, almost as thick around as Barsad’s wrist, and more than half the length of his forearm, leaking precome from the slit and arching slightly to the left. He’s uncut and Barsad rubs the foreskin between his thumb and index fingers, making the man’s hips arch out of the chair, his hand pressing almost painfully against Barsad’s trapped cock.

 

The man opens Barsad’s pants with shaking fingers and Barsad takes it as a personal victory when he twists his wrist and the man groans, his hands falling away from their task. His cock throbs when it hits the open air, the man’s large hands covering it from root to tip, working him slow and thorough. Barsad’s breath hitches and the man growls, crushing them together and wrapping Barsad’s hands around them both, covering it with one of his own. His other hand rests on the small of Barsad’s back, urging him to thrust into the tight hold around their cocks.

 

It’s hot and slick, and the man’s thumb is settled in the gap between his own, rubbing at the ridge along the head of Barsad’s cock, sending sparks through him. The man’s hand slips under Barsad’s waistband, fingers dipping into the top of his cleft before moving on to clench around a handful of flesh. His fingers are blunt, his grip unforgiving, and Barsad knows he’ll have bruises there in the morning. The thought spurs him on, bucking faster into their hands and panting into the man’s neck as he leans over him. The man presses in close, mouthing at the curve of Barsad’s shoulder where his shirt has gone askew. Slowly, carefully, he sets his teeth to the sensitive skin over Barsad’s clavicle and bites down with force. 

 

Barsad cries out and comes, blinding white light obscuring his vision as he spills over their hands. The man’s grips tightens on them, speeding up to draw every last drop out of him while Barsad shakes in his lap. He’s panting when he comes down, his skin slicked with sweat, the man’s hand still covering his, jerking slowly. Barsad meets his gaze and sees nothing but need there, so he shimmies off the man’s lap. There’s no room to kneel on the footrest, so he steps to one side, leaning down to replace his hands with his mouth on the man’s cock. He’s covered in Barsad’s come, his shaft sticky with it, and Barsad licks him clean, lapping at every inch while the man’s breath grown high and loud.

 

He has to open as wide as he can to take him in, the corners of his mouth protesting at the stretch, but the first taste of precome on his tongue has him moaning, all discomfort swept away by the man’s hand scratching against his scalp, urging him down further. 

 

Barsad is full, so full, and he can’t help but thank whatever power in the universe sent this man to him. He gorges himself on his cock, pulling him deep until his throat is protesting, and then a little further, his air cut off and spit dripping down him chin. The man groans and pulls him off, allowing Barsad to suck in a hurried breath before pressing him back down. His hands are gentle, but firm on Barsad’s head and neck, and it’s so fulfilling, the man’s reactions so genuine, that Barsad can’t bear to think of the man leaving after this. He needs to feel the man’s hands on him everywhere, feel the power in his thrust as he fits himself inside Barsad, solid and unrelenting between his thighs.

 

The man lets out a choked gasp, holding Barsad still as his mouth fills with come, the syrupy saltiness of it cutting off all his senses until he can pull back far enough to swallow. He bobs his head, his tongue gathering every trace of it before pulling off. He presses his cheek the the man’s hip, his scent strong and familiar now, his skin warm and moist. He stands slowly, his breath still coming in gasps, and tucks himself back into his pants. The man follows his lead, pulling his wallet out as soon as he’s on his feet. He taps the side of his head with his fingers and lays the money out on the counter, just like always. Barsad smirks, secretly relieved that the man had taken care to ensure Barsad knew the money wasn’t an insult. 

 

The man picks up his coat, shrugging his broad shoulders into the thick wool, settling it into place. Barsad’s throat feels tight, words trying to choke their way out. He doesn’t know what to say to keep the man here, has no idea if they even speak the same language, but he knows if the man leaves, he’ll never be back. They’ve crossed a line tonight, made each other vulnerable in a way neither intended, and once he’s had time to think about it, Barsad knows the man won’t take the same chance twice. 

 

The lock startles him, loud as a gunshot in the heavy silence of the shop, and Barsad takes a step forward, reaching out. The man stills, his back is turned, but he’s watching Barsad closely in the window’s reflection. Barsad meets his stormy eyes in the glass and drops his hand.

 

“Stay,” he offers quietly, his voice low and gruff from use.

 

He receives no response, but the man averts his stormy eyes, staring instead through the blinds at the world outside the shop. Barsad doesn’t have much to offer him, has given it all away already, he’s sure, but he can’t let the man go without at least trying to keep him. He owes himself that, he thinks. After years of solitude and penance, he might just deserve a little comfort for himself. He thinks the man might as well.

 

The lock tumbles into place again and the man turns to Barsad, his eyes cautious, but clear. Barsad lets out his breath and attempts a smile. It feels brittle and awkward on his face, but the man nods, reaching out to grasp him by the back of the neck. He bends, placing a softly tentative kiss to Barsad’s lips, and Barsad’s smile grows, blooming into a gentle and honest secret between them. 

  
  
  



End file.
